


Tumblr drabbles

by youraveragejoke



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Okami Hanzo Shimada, Van Helsing McCree
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-17
Updated: 2018-10-15
Packaged: 2019-06-12 04:20:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15331599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youraveragejoke/pseuds/youraveragejoke
Summary: A bunch of drabbles from tumblr, so I can store them somewhere reasonable.





	1. Accidents Happen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for traditionallyappealing/newspaperbowties on tumblr for the prompt: _anyways, wolfzo getting upset enough to transform and accidently hurting mccree and feeling fucking awful about it afterwards :)_

Hanzo watches the blood drip from his hands and is mesmerized a moment by the repetitive thud of it splattering onto the floor. There is so much there, and he can’t seem to tear his eyes from it. His ears are ringing too loudly to hear anything, either, and he’s not even sure where he is, if there even should be sound. The rhythm breaks when there seems to be an echo and he looks up in time to see another drop fall from Jesse’s arm to join the small puddle at his feet. 

Instantly, he regains sensation, too much and all at once; the smell of Jesse’s blood, his fear, the look of surprise and shock on his face, how strangely small he looks, the howling rage in his own chest, and the dying sounds of the wendigo several feet away.

It finally occurs to Hanzo why everything looks so strangely disproportionate and he looks down at his hands—no his claws—again. Realization hits him, and he reels back, ears flattening on his head. 

“Jesse, I—” Hanzo starts saying, realizes he cannot speak when nothing but a growl is produced, extends a bloody paw at Jesse, and interrupts himself when he flinches away.

He lets his paw drop and backs away a few steps, can’t help the whine from bubbling out of his throat, can’t help the way his tail tucks between his legs and his eyes run over Jesse to see if he’s hurt anywhere else. 

That seems to snap Jesse out of his own stupor, because he suddenly looks at his arm and back up at Hanzo, eyes wide. 

“Han.. Hanzo?” Jesse doesn’t quite take a step forward, but he isn’t running away either. He seems to remember he’s bleeding, though, and after a short deliberation, fumbles into his pack to retrieve a cloth and wrap it around the wound quickly. 

Hanzo whines again, lowers himself to the ground and just barely resists the urge to roll over, if only because it’s easier to keep an eye on Jesse when he’s right side up. 

Finally, Jesse finishes dressing his wound, and it’s hurried and sloppy, but apparently, he had other priorities. He’s looking at Hanzo now, intensely, and Hanzo wiggles himself back a few more feet, shame and horror urging him to run. He isn’t convinced Jesse won’t skin him alive for this; he would certainly deserve it. If he can’t even control his own transformation when he is taken by surprise, what good is he as a partner, as a hunter? Jesse hasn’t drawn a weapon yet, but he also hasn’t moved from his spot and his eyes are dangerous, calculating. 

Hanzo doesn’t move, and he can’t keep eye contact, so he focuses on the puddle of blood at Jesse’s feet. It’s small, but it reeks, and Hanzo feels his gut churn knowing he is responsible for it. Another whine works its way out, despite his best efforts, and Jesse softens all at once. 

“Hanzo, hey. Look at me,” Jesse says voice soft but insistent. 

Hanzo does, for a moment, but he can’t for very long and his eyes shift to the wendigo, the bush, a tree in the middle distance. Anything that isn’t Jesse. When he hears him take a careful step forward, Hanzo’s hackles rise, and the whine he is surprised to find he had still been making turns into a low, warning growl, ears pinned back. 

“Easy, Hanzo, easy. Look at me, please?” And Jesse’s tone is nearly pleading as he crouches. He’s favouring his arm, of course he is, and the wince he tries to hide as he forgets not to brace himself with it doesn’t escape Hanzo’s notice. 

Hanzo cuts the growl, but he stays stock-still as Jesse takes an awkward step forward, still crouched. When Jesse finally manages to crouch-walk his way close enough, Hanzo has to resist the urge to nuzzle into him. He has had to resist that urge a lot lately, but this time, it was very easy. He need only look down at the blood contrasting his white fur to remember why he shouldn’t be doing that. But Jesse seemed to have his own ideas, and carefully, excruciatingly slowly, he extends his injured arm towards him. 

“It’s alright,” he says and as Hanzo flinches back, “easy, Hanzo, look. It’s fine, see?”

Hanzo sees red bleed through the cloth, smells the iron and adrenaline and fear, can practically hear Jesse’s heart beat furiously. Hanzo wiggles back again, turns his head away and doesn’t even try to stop the whine this time. 

Jesse drops his arm and his face scrunches up with such sincere concern that it almost makes Hanzo furious all over again. Why is _he_ the one worried about Hanzo, when Hanzo just about ripped his arm off in a fleeting moment of panic? He should have taken his revolver out and put him down the moment he had realized what had happened, and instead, he was crouched in front of an enormous _beast_ trying his best to comfort it. Hanzo huffs, and his tail thumps in agitation, but he deflates quickly when Jesse’s face falls flat, unimpressed. 

“You know what,” he says, sitting himself down with only a brief puff to express the amount of pain he must be in. “You’re right. That was kind of stupid of you and we really gotta work on that. This?” He gestures to his arm, “hurts like a _bitch_ and I would rather we don’t do that again.” 

Hanzo’s pride gets the best of him, ears perking up and he raises his head as if to challenge that statement before he remembers himself and instead gives Jesse an indignant huff. _No shit._

“Hey, you got no room to sass me,” Jesse says, but his voice doesn’t carry the weight of threat. Instead, he seems rather amused by the entire situation. 

Hanzo briefly feels a flash of anger, _How can you be so relaxed about this? It could have been so much worse. I could have killed you!_ But it is dowsed immediately when Jesse’s eyes go soft again, concern and kindness written all over his face. 

“Hanzo, we’re _alive_ aren’t we? That wendigo had the drop on us, probably woulda made off with my whole damned arm if you hadn’t reacted so fast,” Jesse says and he uses his good arm to scoot a little closer. Hanzo stiffens, but doesn’t back away this time. “We’ll work on that, ok? We’ll figure something out and, next time, we’ll have the drop on them and then you can do all,” he waves at Hanzo and then the wendigo’s smouldering corpse, “that and we’ll be fine.”

 _We. Next time._ Hanzo drops his head, pins his ears back and his tail betrays his hope when it swishes almost eagerly in the foliage. Jesse gives out a weak chuckle and closes the distance between them, settling down at Hanzo’s shoulder. 

“In the meantime, you’re gonna carry my shit for me. Can’t handle my bag and my roll, and wield Peacekeeper all with one hand,” he says, a teasing note to his voice that has Hanzo huffing at him. He settle his head down, keeping an eye on Jesse, and Jesse raises his good hand into the scruff at his neck. 

_A small price to pay for your trust and forgiveness, Hunter. I will not let you regret that decision._


	2. Just Pay the Price

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His gut roils painfully at the thought, head pounding, but he hasn’t tipped over to ‘rather be dead than suffer this’ yet, and so he unholsters Peacekeeper slowly. He knows he wouldn’t be able to hit a sitting duck two feet from him right now if he tried, hands shaking and vision swimming as they are, but he doesn’t need to do the work for this; just has to pay the price.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> was suffering a really horrible migraine so i kept myself entertained by imagining mccree suffering one too. ive always been a fan of saltcore and robocryptid’s hc that deadeye taxes mccree so here we go.

McCree watches the eight bodies fall, slowly at first, still under the effects of Deadeye, and then seemingly all at once as time catches up with reality. The first wave of nausea rolls over him as colour and brighter light return to his vision, dotted by hazy obstructions, and he just manages to stay steady on his feet. The clock starts ticking. He’s got about two hours left in him before he becomes useless, and he needs to make the most of it. 

The mission started off simply enough; escort a high profile diplomat to an international meeting and back to their hotel to guard overnight. It was supposed to be as low-stakes as possible, according to Athena’s calculations. Talon’s interest in the meeting was apparently almost zero, preoccupied as they were with fanning the flames of another crisis in Russia, and Overwatch spared a bare minimum of agents to this mission, preferring to send the bigger bulk of the team North.

McCree’s already figured out that it was all a trap. There would be no crisis in Russia, but there is definitely a crisis in Argentina, and backup would never arrive on time. With the two other agents posted here with him, he figures they have about a sixty percent chance of successfully defending the diplomat, and a fifty percent chance of doing it without casualty, only so optimistic because Hana already blew half the enemy forces to smithereens. 

He might’ve brought their odds up a bit in the short term by blowing Deadeye so soon, but the knowledge that the longer the standoff lasts, the lower the odds will get, rests heavily on his mind. He shoves that thought off to the side so that it burns him with urgency without distracting him from his job, and plans his next move. 

Hana and Lucio are staying close to the armoured vehicle, keeping ground forces at bay, but something needs to be done about the drones in the sky. As long as they stay up there, their every movement is known and they could boost their chances of success by at least ten percent if they could return to the shadows.

Looking into the sky to find them is already painful, despite the clouds defusing the sunlight a bit. He finds one, flying low and probably heading straight for their location. McCree takes aim and with a thundering, skull splitting shot, the drone pitches towards the ground. McCree has to take a deep breath, fights back the dizziness as the noise blooms in his skull and his vision wavers, but he doesn’t have a lot of time for it, because he’s spotted another drone. 

By the time McCree dispatches half a dozen of them, his ears ring painfully. The mild pressure which started forming behind his eyes has become more insistent, the tips of his fingers tingling as even his own pulse seems to add to it. He takes a moment to stabilize behind cover, checks in on Lucio and Hana. 

They’re doing fine, they say, as fine as they can being desperately outnumbered as they are. He’s not needed at the vehicle yet, and they all agree he should keep up his assault on their flank. McCree’s somewhat thankful; he’s not sure the thrumming beat of Lucio’s music is something he can tolerate right now. Instead, he sets off to look for the commanding officer. He dispatches as many agents as he encounters on the way, careful about avoiding situations which would require his flashbangs. Hell knows they’d put him out as much as the enemy in his state. 

He doesn’t have a lot of time left, the pressure in his skull unfurling and taking up more and more of his attention. Every shot he takes triggers a pounding in his head so severe, he has to swallow back another wave of nausea. His eyes are having a hard time adjusting to light, and he’s pretty sure he’s losing feeling in his toes now too. 

 _Take out the CO, take out the CO, take out the CO._  He repeats it over and over again to keep himself focused. He has a pretty good idea where she is. 

His hands are shaking by the time he finds her. An abandoned store on the edge of the commotion, how typical. He grits his teeth to stave off the pain, and regrets it instantly. His teeth, his jaw, his temples, they all throb painfully in time with his pulse and he elects to squeeze his eyes shut, instead. He doesn’t have long at all. Thankfully, the area isn’t heavily guarded, the enemy never suspecting the small team would try to get this far, and McCree is infinitely grateful he can get away with using his knife to dispatch these guards. 

He makes quick work of the CO, knows Talon won’t even miss her, and makes sure the troops can hear what’s going on through their communication channels to maximize confusion and disorder in their ranks. That should buy Hana and Lucio some time. That should draw attention away from the targets and towards him. He turns the light off in the room, barricades the door and slips out through the window, carefully closing it again before heading back towards his team. 

He makes surprisingly good time, running into a single agent on the way, when his luck finally runs out. 

His vision’s already blurring at the edges, his palms slippery from sweat, and McCree thinks cracking his skull open might actually be a mercy at this point, but there are about a dozen enemy agents between him and safety, and McCree doesn’t have the strength left in him to climb the long way around. He can see Hana, taking cover behind the armoured vehicle, putting damage out on the enemy agents flanking them, can see Lucio work to keep the closest ones off their position and he knows he can’t ask for a distraction. 

He considers staying hidden here, maybe set off a distress beacon that backup can track when they eventually arrive, but it would make him a pretty easy target, alone, broadcasting his position to anyone paying attention. His other option is definitely less pleasant, but would all but guarantee mission success. His gut roils painfully at the thought, head pounding, but he hasn’t tipped over to ‘rather be dead than suffer this’ yet, and so he unholsters Peacekeeper slowly. He knows he wouldn’t be able to hit a sitting duck two feet from him right now if he tried, hands shaking and vision swimming as they are, but he doesn’t need to do the work for this; just has to pay the price. 

Thirteen shots echo throughout the street and McCree thinks maybe he got shot too for how much his skull hurts. He wavers on his feet, keeps his eyes open long enough to make sure the path is clear and finally kneels over to part with his breakfast. He shuffles away from the mess, but doesn’t—can’t move anymore than that. He’s overextended now, but at least they won the gamble. The rest of the enemy troops are without orders, their ranks all but shattered. He just needs to join the other two so they can finish the escort, to a safehouse now.

But when he tries to stand, the world tilts around him and he’s back on the ground; he doesn’t have the strength to try again. 

He’s barely aware of Lucio and Hana approaching—Lucio must have cut his music—barely aware of being helped up, but he remembers feeling really bad about being sat in the car. He’s filthy and the seats will get dirty and surely the diplomat won’t want to share their seat with an outlaw, but then they are rather comfortable, and when he finally rests his head—how did it even fit through the door it must be huge by now—on a cushion, basking in the warm glow of a biotic emitter, there’s isn’t a power in world that could stop him from going under. 

* * *

When he thinks he opens his eyes again, he’s not sure if he succeeded. The room is so dark, only the faintest outline of the window gives him any indication that he’s seeing something. He turns his head to gather his bearings and only regrets it a little bit. His head feels strange, heavy and tingling and a familiar pulsing sensation which upsets his stomach. But it’s nearly gone. He can only guess how long he’s been out. 

When he finally manages to sit up a little, his eyes have adjusted enough that he can make out a glass of water on the bedside table. He’s suddenly very aware of being thirsty. Still, he drinks slowly, mindful of his recovering body. It helps alleviate a little bit of the headache, but the dull throbbing carries on. He’s about to hunker back down to sleep off the rest of the migraine when his door opens slightly, admitting a wide silhouette he’d recognize anywhere. 

Hanzo says nothing, but nods in his direction to acknowledge he’s awake. McCree is infinitely grateful for the silence. Hanzo quietly sets down a second glass of water on his night table, picking the empty one up, and places a banana and some lightly buttered rice next to it.  McCree didn’t think he was hungry but the smell of the rice is appealing all the same. He picks the bowl up and takes a few careful forkfuls. He’s not looking to push his luck, though, so he sets the rest down and lowers himself back into the sheets. He hears the door open briefly before he falls asleep again. 

When he wakes this time, the rice is gone but the banana stayed. McCree sits up to carefully drink the water, gauging how he feels. He figures the best he can come up with is ‘like shit’ but the relief that washes over him when he gently swivels his head and doesn’t immediately feel like falling over is almost enough to call it ‘just fine’ instead. 

McCree is very urgently made aware of his bladder, though, and he carries himself over to the washroom, careful not to exert himself too much. While he’s there, he decides he’s up for a shower too, and he spends a long time enjoying the warm water, and the basic pleasure of existing relatively painlessly. Towel wrapped around his waist and dripping, he enters his room again, a definitive skip to his step. 

Hanzo is back, this time with rice and some meat, and McCree almost falls to his knees with gratitude when the smell hits him. He’d been growing hungry in the shower, and he was thinking he’d skip the banana all together for a heartier meal. 

“Feeling better?” Hanzo asks, picking at his own rice. 

“Yeah, lots.” 

“Good. Sit, you need to eat. It’s been over sixteen hours since your last meal,” Hanzo says, waving at McCree’s bowl. McCree obeys gladly.

Belly full, and finally happier, head clearer, McCree sits back in his chair with a sigh. Hanzo is about to take the dishes back to the hall when McCree grabs his hand. Hanzo looks at him expectantly, but doesn’t try to pull away. 

“Thanks,” McCree says. “For…” and he waves towards the night table, now clear, not sure how to put  _for helping to put me back together, for giving me something to hold on to, for being there for me_ , into words. 

Hanzo says nothing but rounds the table and bends over at the waist to lightly rest his forehead against McCree’s. Their relationship is still so new, yet Hanzo had done all this for him and his heart swells a little painfully at the realization he’d have had to have consulted with Fareeha to know what was going on at all, never mind how to help him through it. 

“I’m glad you’re feeling better, Jesse,” Hanzo says, quiet in the space between them. 

McCree stretches up to close the gap between their lips, tugs Hanzo’s hand in as his other one wraps around Hanzo’s neck. They kiss, feather light and gentle for several seconds before McCree pulls away with a smile.

“Lemme take care of the dishes, I need to do somethin’ before I get too comfortable,” McCree says. 

“If you’d like, but I must insist you put clothes on first,” Hanzo says as he straightens, smirk crinkling the corners of his eyes in a way that makes McCree’s heart lighter. 

“Well now, maybe I had plans for being naked all day.”

“Don’t push your luck, McCree, you aren’t supposed to engage in rigorous physical activity for the next twelve hours. Doctor’s orders,” Hanzo says, but he does step aside to let McCree grab the dishes. 

McCree gives him a sly look as he passes by with the bowls in hand, brushes a warm kiss to Hanzo’s cheek on the way. “Wasn’t thinkin’ rigorous at all, sweetheart. We can go nice n’ slow.” 

Hanzo’s eyes darken just a touch and he looks like he considers it seriously, but he doesn’t quite return the kiss, concern still lingering. “We’ll see how you’re feeling after you wash the dishes,” and he punctuates it with an affectionate slap to McCree’s hip. 

That definitely wasn’t a no.


End file.
